“Ver’ good sailor,” thought Salim Awad, as he tied up at Sam Swuth’s wharf.
’Twas a proper estimate. “Ver’ good,” he repeated. “Ver’ beeg good.”
Then this Salim, who had lost at love, made haste to the cottage of Skipper Jim Tuft, wherein was the child Jamie, who had lost the watch. He entered abruptly from the gale—recognizing no ceremony of knocking, as why should he? There was discovered to him a dismal group: Skipper Jim, Jamie’s mother, Jamie—all in the uttermost depths. “I am come!” cried he. “I—Salim Awad—I am come from thee sea! I am come from thee black night—I am come wet from thee rain—I am escape thee hands of thee sea! I am come—I, Salim Awad, broke of thee heart!” ’Twas a surprising thing to the inmates of that mean, hopeless place. “I am come,” Salim repeated, posing dramatically—“I, Salim—I am come!” ’Twas no more than amazement he confronted. “To thee help of thee child,” he repeated. “Eh? To thee cure of thee broke heart.” There was no instant response. Salim drew a new watch from his pocket. “I have come from thee ver’ mos’ awful sea with thee new watch. Eh? Ver’ good. I am fetch thee cure of thee broke heart to thee poor child.” There was no doubt about the efficacy of the cure. ’Twas a thing evident and delightful. Salim was wet, cold, disheartened by the night and weather; but the response restored him. “Thee watch an’ thee li’l’ chain, Jamie,” said he, with a bow most polite, “it is to you.”
Jamie grabbed the watch.
“Ver’ much ’bliged,” said Salim.
“Thanks,” said Jamie.
And in this cheap and simple way Salim Awad restored the soul of Jamie Tuft and brought happiness to all that household.
And now, when the news of this feat came to the ears of Khalil Khayyat, the editor, as all news must come, he sought the little back room of Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in all the world, with the letter in his hand. Presently he got his narghile going, and a cup of perfumed coffee before him on the round, green baize table; and he was very happy—what with the narghile and the coffee and the letter from the north. There was hot weather, the sweat and complaint of the tenements; there was the intermittent roar and shriek of the Elevated trains rounding the curve to South Ferry; there was the street murmur and gasp, the noise of boisterous voices and the click of dice in the outer room; but by these Khalil Khayyat was not disturbed. Indeed not; there was a matter of the poetry of reality occupying his attention. He called Nageeb, the little Intelligent One, who came with soft feet; and he bade the little one summon to his presence Nageeb Fiani, the artist, the greatest player in all the world, who came, deferentially, wondering concerning this important message from the poet.
“Nageeb,” said Khalil Khayyat, “there has come a letter from the north.”